


Prompt No.3 - Delirium

by orphan_account



Series: Hamilton Whumptober 2019 [3]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Hair Braiding, Illnesses, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2019, holy shit thats a tag?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 08:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A fever ravages Washington's camp, and Laurens and Hamilton fall victim to the sickness. However, while in the throes of the fever, Alexander admits to a few things he wanted to keep private.For Whumptober 2019Prompt No.3 - Delirium





	Prompt No.3 - Delirium

**Author's Note:**

> I am not Lin Manuel. Nor am I a museum. Hence, not mine.

The sweltering heat swelled under Gilbert’s skin, swollen drops of seat slipping down his chin and forehead, beading on his arms, blotching wet patches to his coats no doubt. His cheeks felt flushed in the ravaging humidity, hair frizzed and hardly tamed by his ribbon. Walking fast and with purpose, he nearly tripped over soldiers strewn about the pathways, some lolling across the dirt, others wobbling deliriously on two feet, all panting like dogs.

Upon receiving notice of Washington’s camp falling under a mysterious and hard-hitting fever, Gilbert instantly thought of Alexander and John. What with the military’s supplies already wearing thin, and the long days and overheating nights eating at the men, he wondered how his dearest of friends were faring under such extremes. And, if not for Washington’s desperate request for him, Gilbert may have remained in a state of unknowing halfway across the battlefront. He had, originally, thanked God for the letter addressing his coming to camp as it appeared before his commanding officer, but, as he stumbled through the campsite, carefully toeing around stray flailing limbs and soldiers with wide, glassy eyes, he realized this was nothing of what he pictured.

He pictured seeing Alexander and John, his boys, lighting up with warm smiles as he slipped into their tent. He pictured clapping them on the back as he held them in warm embraces, warm but welcomed despite the overwhelming summer heat. He pictured them working together to fight the tide of the fever before rounding back to the battlefields.

He pictured them alive. Were they even alive?

Gilbert flew into Washington’s tent, breathless and sticky with sweat. “_ Mon général _, what has happened? What of John? Of Alexander?”

“Lafayette…?” Washington turned from where he hovered over a drafting table, information sprawled across the length of the surface. He dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief and held his hand up. “Relax, _marquis_. Hamilton and Laurens are alive.”

Gilbert visibly relaxed. He deflated from the inside out, his heart slowing to a breathable pace, limbs wobbling like warmed pudding. Nodding jerkily, he asked, “Where are they?”

“Resting.” Washington said. “And as much as I understand you wish to see to them, please know that you have far more prudent matters to attend to.” The general turned back to his desk, fingers glancing off the maps and diagrams before he snatched a stack of loose papers into his hands and made his way over to Gilbert. “I need these redrafted and sent, if you would. Normally, my aides would attend to this matter, but seeing as they are both ill, I require a helping hand.”

“I understand,” Gilbert took the stack with shaky hands. Adrenaline pooled through his veins. “However, _mon général_, I ask: what if they die? What if they are at their final moments? _ À Dieu ne plaise! _ While I write papers, no doubt!”

“There is no need for concern, Lafayette.” Washington said. His face drooped with weariness, but his eyes lit up with the warm spark of excitement. “The fever has knocked us on our ass, but it is not fatal. The doctor of our camp has not recorded one death yet. Rest assured, I truly believe mister Laurens and mister Hamilton have luck on their side, and will be on their feet soon enough.”

“_ Pas fatal? _ Are you positive? No death?” Gilbert dropped his hands to his sides, the papers nearly slipping from his grasp. His heart flooded his ears, rushing with relief, loud and overjoyed. He released a loud breath and nodded, fighting back hot tears. “Good. Good.”

Washington mirrored his solace in the fact, taking a deep breath and smiling faintly. “They will survive, Lafayette. I, too, am relieved I will not need to find another mind such as Laurens, nor another pen such as Hamilton. However, the war will not wait.” He gestured to the papers and cleared his throat. “I have a tent prepared for you on the other side of camp, away from much of the sickness. There, you will find all you need. As soon as you finish, you are dismissed. I expect you are required elsewhere as well, no?”

Gilbert bowed his head. He ground his teeth tight. “Of course.” He saluted quickly, and turned on his heel for the exit.

If he was to work and then leave so soon after, what of Alexander and John? Gilbert would have to rely on Washington’s brief assurances for himself and, despite the calmness he garnered knowing the fever was likely not fatal, he wanted his proof. He wanted to put his hands on John’s hands, feel Alexander’s fingers under his, seeing the life in their eyes, the life in their words as they spoke to him after nearly a month of his absence elsewhere. To be carted away like a mere soldier, _ bon Dieu _, Gilbert could drop his foot through the ceiling of Washington’s tent--

Halfway out past the flap, Washington called, “_Marquis! _”

Gilbert glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, _ général? _” His voice squeaked with agitation.

Gilbert turned back, a halfhearted salute following. He watched as Washington rattled in his thoughts momentarily, fingers brushing his chin. After a moment, he said, “We have enough rations to feed one more soldier.” Gilbert’s jaw popped open. Washington continued, “If you would like, we would welcome you as our guest for a few days. I’m sure both Hamilton and Laurens would appreciate your visiting once they are more recovered. And we could use your expertise for future plans. What say you, Lafayette?”

Gilbert’s lungs sang as he gulped air. “Yes.”

Washington nodded curtly, a laugh bubbling up. “I thought that may raise your spirits. Now, off with you. And make haste. Laurens and Hamilton are awaiting your arrival.”

\--

As night draped over the campsite, Gilbert found himself kneeling by John’s side. Where Alexander thrashed and flung himself about his cot, John had remained still, and the silence of his dear friend worried Gilbert beyond words. He had seen men go quiet before the light left their eyes and their words dried on their lips, never reaching a final peace. He had seen soldiers die without so much as a single movement, simply slipping away, limp and weak. Gilbert ignored the bite in his knees as he shifted, dabbing a damp cloth over John’s brow.

For some time, he had listened as Alexander spoke in his sleep, yelping like a wounded animal every hour-or-so, loud enough that Gilbert thought he would wake the entire camp. But with a shush and a gentle brush of the hair from his face, the young aide would go quiet. Gilbert had hovered at Alexander’s side, glancing over his pitiful state as he had dragged the lightweight blanket over his friend after he had, once more, kicked it off in his throes of fever fit. Dressed in a flimsy, rather oversized night shirt, Gilbert had hissed as Alexander flung the blanket off and trembled from the sudden exposure as the shirt barely graced over his upper thighs. The process repeated for hours, with Gilbert draping the sheet over Alexander’s shoulders and, with a twist, twist, twist, Alexander flinging the sheet back to the tent ground.

Gilbert adjusted the rag over John’s brow. He waited for another one of Alexander’s hectic fits, working the exhaustion to the back of his mind, as he thought of a way to fill the silence. After a few minutes of heavy breathing on Alexander’s part, and light snores on John’s, Gilbert settled on a story. Keeping his voice to a low, hushed murmur, he retold the story of _ Cendrillon ou la Petite Pantoufle de Verre. _ “A classic,” Gilbert whispered to John, despite the man’s unconsciousness. “A lovely oral tradition from _ ma famille. _”

He spoke slowly, as if John were awake, as if he were an infant who had yet to learn a language. Alternating between the chunky consonants of English and the smooth cadence of French, Gilbert retold the tale in, admittedly, embarrassingly vague detail. “...and _ Cendrillon _ runs down the stairs, too fast, and _ la fille muette _, very stupid, that one, she loses the shoe. On steps. How daft does one get, no? How does she not trip? And so--”

A strangled sharp cry interrupted Gilbert, cutting his words off instantly. The story dried up in his throat as he pulled himself to his feet and shuffled to where Alexander whimpered out in his sleep. Curled on his side, hair fanned against the pillow under his head, Gilbert blinked down through the darkness to see Alexander’s eyes cracked open, his breath coming in fast.

“Alexander, you are awake?”

Gilbert knelt down next to Alexander, taking a hand held tight to his chest. The limb went without a fight, palm burning in Gilbert’s grasp. “You are feverish still…” Gilbert whispered. He kissed Alexander’s whitened knuckles gently, rubbing his thumb over the scarred skin. “Are you awake?” he tried again.

He watched as Alexander’s chest rose and fell raggedly, his dark eyes staring at nothing as his mouth began to move soundlessly.

“Alexander?” Gilbert brought his free hand to cup Alexander’s cheek.

His fingers brushed Alexander’s hot face and, as if jerked awake, Alexander startled and whined out, “Mama…?”

For a moment, Gilbert blinked dumbly, his exhausted brain failing to piece together what, exactly, had slipped past Alexander’s lips. Alexander Hamilton, stoic badass, a pain in everyone’s ass, had just called Gilbert…

“No, _ mon petit lion. _ It is I. Lafayette.” Gilbert’s nerves fizzed uncomfortably at the deadened stare Alexander flashed his way. His gaze waned into focus, almost as if he were staring through Gilbert, into another word, another time, another life. “Alexander, do you…know me?”

Alexander licked his chapped lips. “Yes.” His eyes lolled in their sockets as he croaked out, “My mother…is she all right?”

Gilbert rolled the pink skin of his lip between his teeth. It was rather difficult to answer without knowing the correct answer, Gilbert found, as he fumbled without words, gaping like a beached fish as Alexander zoned out. What was the truth? Was it better to say the truth? Or was it best to lie?

Eventually, Gilbert mumbled, “I cannot answer, Alexander” It felt wrong. The words tasted rancid.

Alexander wormed around, trying to sit up. Gilbert weakly pushed his shoulders back to the cot. “No, I must know....” His fingers twitched in Gilbert’s grasp. “I...thought she...died. Yes. She is gravely ill, see?” He turned to Gilbert, head flopping around, hair falling into his face. Gilbert brushed it out of the way as Alexander continued to babble, “She was getting better...but now? Alas, she may die. She...is unwell, see? I...I must be ill as well. I cannot recall. But...she is ill. You--you must understand, Lafayette. You must help her. Is she…alive? Please understand, my friend, I…my mother is ill--”

Gilbert nodded slowly. He pressed a gentle finger to Alexander’s mouth. Even his lips burned hot with sickness. “I understand, _ petit lion. _ Now, rest.” He struggled to breathe past his heart as it hammered in his chest, rocking him, ballooning under his sternum. What was he to say? Gilbert was not one to lie to his friends, especially his feverish, delirious friends, but the world seemed to suddenly become too heavy to hold. His shoulders dropped, his head fell, and he hit his forehead on the edge of Alexander’s cot as the realization smacked him in the face: Alexander’s mother was dead.

Alexander was closed off, even to the most sheltered of lives, and Gilbert realized that he, along with John, and Hercules, and likely the general, too, knew nothing of him. Was he an orphan? Perhaps Burr had overheard something? Something Gilbert could look into should his friend become feverish and in need of consolidation Gilbert just couldn’t offer.

Did Alexander have a father? Siblings? Aunts or uncles? Cousins? Or was he truly alone? The prospect chilled Gilbert’s breaths. He squeezed Alexander’s hand tighter. Alexander blinked over at Gilbert, his foggy stare relentless.

Slowly, Alexander asked, “Is my mother…well?”

“I…” Gilbert choked on his spit. “I am...unsure, my friend.”

“Do you have medicine?” Alexander’s eyes slipped closed for a moment before snapping open. Veins of red strain brightened his dark irises in the weak candlelight. “She…is ill. Please…give her my medicine. She…will die without it…”

Alexander’s head rolled against the pillow once more. His eyes rolled up and his body boneless as he began to mumble in unconsciousness once more.

“Alexander?” Gilbert gently prodded Alexander’s cheek. The aide didn’t stir whatsoever, not even a twitch, and Gilbert sighed. He watched his friend’s face morph between relaxed and tense, pinched tight in every way as if he were being beaten. But perhaps he was, Gilbert knew. He was being beaten alive by the ghosts of the past. Of a delirious fever-dream that he could not escape.

His hair flipped into his face once more as he scrabbled against the cot.

“Perhaps,” Gilbert said to the open air. “I can braid your hair, _ mon lion? _You will feel refreshed when your fever is gone and the sweat comes, no?”

It took a moment for Gilbert to work out the logistics but, with a sudden air of confidence and almost domesticated warmth, Gilbert heaved Alexander upright -_ a weightless twig, _Gilbert cursed under his breath in French - and hiked Alexander up his chest so that he lay rather comfortably. With Alexander’s cheek smushed to Gilbert’s collarbone, Gilbert set to work, running his fingers through the unnaturally greasy hair; an oiliness that he only found with those who suffered from ailments, as if the body were attempting to flush itself of a demon.

He straightened the strands, dragging his fingers through once more to catch any small snags, and slowly began to fold three thick strands over themselves. He sang softly to himself, shifting only occasionally as Alexander danced in his nightmares, talking to nobody, fighting his ghosts.

The night faded away into an early morning, where the sun shuffled across the blades of grass and peeked in through the tent flaps. Alexander had remained still for the last minutes of Gilbert’s work, breaths even and smooth. As he reached the last folds of the braid, Gilbert settled his hands over Alexander’s shoulders, body burning, sweating profusely from the heat Alexander was kicking off. He scrunched his hands a bit, whispering, “finished” and expecting no answer in return.

“Thank you.”

Gilbert froze for a moment, before he said, “Always, my friend. How do you feel?” He brought a hand to brush over Alexander’s forehead. His skin was hot, but clammy, offering Gilbert’s worries a reprieve as his fever seemingly broke mid-braiding.

Alexander hummed something incoherent. Gilbert leaned in closer, “What was that?”

“Please…” Alexander huffed softly. “Do not…talk of what you heard last night.”

Gilbert frowned. “Of what do you speak?”

“Of my mother.” Alexander, despite his head turned away, still burned a bright pink, his ears tinged red, cheeks flushed. Perhaps it was the fever? “I…was delirious. I apologize. It is _ mortifying-- _”

“No, _ mon petit lion. _” Gilbert gently clapped his hand over Alexander’s mouth. Alexander mumbled something and Gilbert laughed softly. He continued, “No, there is no apology needed.”

Alexander craned his neck to look up at Gilbert. His face, while still pale, was fleshed with life, eyes alight with his usual fiery gaze. Gilbert couldn’t help the quirk in his lips.

“It is embarrassing, _ amie. _” Alexander mumbled. “I was weak--”

Gilbert placed his hand back, and Alexander’s eyebrows dropped comically. “No, friend. If I am not to see you at your weakest, as your dearest and most trusted friend, then whom? No, you must trust me. I will not judge you.”

Alexander said something into Gilbert’s palm.

Gilbert moved his hand. “Pardon?”

“All right.” Alexander repeated softly. He turned away from Gilbert, but didn’t make to move away. “Thank you.”

Gilbert patted Alexander’s sweaty forehead lightly and smiled. “Of course, _ mon petit lion. _Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> Is it technically still for day 3 even though it's past midnight? Y'all I had five classes today plus extra shit and I still wanted to hammer this out. Obviously...not on time, but it's the thought that counts.
> 
> Sorry it's very light on the whump. Tomorrow it'll be v whumpy. And sorry it's probably not the best of quality. I'm, like, half awake. I can hardly keep my eyes open bro I went to sleep at 1am last night, have been awake since 6, and it's 1230 now...
> 
> :D Haha bitch I'm delirious too the fuck.
> 
> OH AND Y'ALL, I'm not French. I don't speak French. I'm not even sure I've actually heard French outside of Hamilton. So straight up, if Google Translate did me dirty, please tell me. Or don't. Whatever is fine. Snicker at this American boy not being cultured. That's chill. Like I know Japanese, but I don't know SHIT in French.


End file.
